Scyomantia
by Frawley
Summary: Body parts are piling up in Sunnydale, and the creature behind the carnage has Buffy & Dawn in its sights. BS, fairly gory so take heed.
1. Bits & Pieces

Title: **Scyomantia**   
Author: Frawley   
Date: 5th February 2004. 

Category: Full-length story. A couple of changes made since my original draft - this is set in season 7, with some AU elements: Spike is no longer insane, Willow is still in England working out the bad mojo, Xander and Anya have reconciled. It may not be entirely faithful to the show, but aside from these elements (two of which did happen but maybe not exactly true to the time frame I'm using), I'll try. Oh, and the First is on hiatus for this... the fic has its own villain, and I didn't want to juggle two.

Spoilers: Considering the show is done? Well, if you haven't seen the sixth/seventh seasons...

Summary: Body parts are piling up in Sunnydale, and the creature behind the carnage has Buffy & Dawn in its sights.

Comments: Scyomantia is my first full-length fic in story format (my past works have either been vignettes or full-length scripts), and its been a long time coming. When I started it, we were still _in _season six, and even now I'm not anywhere close to complete. Let's hope actually posting the first bit motivates me to get in gear. 

The fic is based in part on the works of Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, who inspired Marlowe to pen Dr. Faustus (well, not entirely, but his influence is there). Agrippa was a writer of esoterica during the Renaissance who at one point lived under a death sentence issued by Charles V. Scyomantia (Scyomancy/Sciomancy), according to Agrippa, is a form of necromancy where only the shadow ("umbra", essentially spirit) of the deceased is raised. I've taken some liberties with the concept in order to suit the story. I'm sure Agrippa won't mind; that or he'll haunt me from the great beyond.

You can find out a bit more info on the Author's Notes page of my web site - frawley.cjb.net - but I haven't posted the fic there yet (and probably won't till it's closer to completion).

Disclaimer: Joss owns most of it, I lay claim to the scraps. FOX can sod off.

* * *

And just when you thought the pre-story blurb was done... 

All my other works have been PG-13, but there's no way to rate this anything other than a hard R. This first chapter is likely to be as gory as it gets, so if you get through that you should make it out alive.

You've been warned.

* * *
    
    **Scyomantia**

  
1. Bits & Pieces

_ I know the pieces fit 'cause I watched them fall away  
mildewed and smoldering, fundamental differing  
pure intention juxtaposed will set two lover's souls in motion  
disintegrating as it goes, testing our communication_ - Schism/**Tool**

  
The earthquake startled both of them, something that irked Buffy - he was a _vampire_, damn it, couldn't he sense these things coming? But then, what didn't irk her about Spike?

She'd stumbled but caught herself, in time to see a tree crack at the trunk and topple over with a whoosh; leaves crackling as they cushioned the impact. Spike didn't seem to have budged, and he had the nerve to wear a smirk across his face. His smugness annoyed her to no end. Most of the time. Not that there was time for playing "The 1000 Annoyances of Spike", however - she knew, even before she sensed him feeling the same, that something was _off_ about that particular earth-shaker. Sure, it was California, earthquakes were old hat, but

"That felt close, Buffy" was all he said. Then he set off across the graveyard, leaving her no choice but the follow.

~~~

The year following the Boxer Rebellion, during which he had claimed his first Slayer, bore witness to more mayhem and carnage in the first three months than in any three _years_ of Spike's afterlife combined. It was a glorious era - for him at least. He was high from the victory, one the great sap going by the laughable title of _Angelus_ could never achieve. Young, headstrong, and full of fight, he would kill anyone, anywhere, which led to a multitude of memories. All of which were rather delectable.

He recalled one particularly brutal slaughter most of all. Along with Drusilla, his dark goddess and sire, he'd wiped out nearly half a village of over three hundred. It had been in South America, Chile, one of many times they would visit that part of the world during the course of a century. And while those visits rarely ended well - they rarely began well, for that matter - his time there after the Boxer Rebellion had been marvelous. Bloody marvelous. 

On the sixth night of terrorizing that dingy little village, made up mostly of mud and straw huts, they'd happened upon a feast unimaginable even to creatures as twisted as themselves. Dru had clapped her pale, dainty hands and cried out in joy - it was special, so lovely, and all for them. He'd simply been hungry and was more than happy to take advantage of their find. Which happened to be the town's children, girls up to their teens, boys all short of manhood. Over three dozen. They'd been stashed in the basement of the village's lone church, hidden beneath the floorboards. The chapel was the only building in the town that even _had_ a basement, and that was constructed of actual wood. As such, it was a poor hiding place - he knew immediately upon seeing it that someone was bound to be tucked away in there. Resting at the heart of the village, perhaps the adults had thought it sheltered - that their tormentors would be loathe to enter the depths of the town. They had some reason for which to believe this. Thus far, he and Dru had picked off nearly a dozen men and women each night amongst the outer dwellings, slowly working their way into town. Unfamiliar with vampires, and having little knowledge of demonology outside of folklore, the people were unaware of what beast stalked their citizenry. Possibly it was rabid wolves? Angry spirits they could not see, living out in the woods? Of course it was nothing so complicated. Drusilla had simply wanted to sleep out under the stars (at least in the few pre-dawn hours before they had to take shelter) - she always did love her stars - so it was a convenient way in which to feed, from the outside working in. And the church at the center like a prize, perhaps holding the priest or the mayor or a favorite daughter. What Spike hadn't counted on was that there'd be just children, with no parental guards to boot. The townsfolk, it seemed, had plenty of faith in The Lord. The Lord would take care of their precious young ones. No creature of the night would dare enter His realm. And to be sure of it, the rest of the population - what was left of it - huddled together amongst a trio of huts near the entrance to the village. There they actually killed two of their own - virgins, who gave up their lives willingly for the greater good - and smeared themselves with the blood, in an attempt to draw the source of their despair out for a final battle. The townsfolk, after all, expected animals. Or something like animals. Surely the blood would attract them and the children would be safe.

Drusilla had actually smelt the blood first; she'd always been more in tune with the world. Spike had sensed it soon enough - but recognized it for that trap that it was. They'd gone straight for the church instead. The locals may have thought them to be animals, and they often relied on their senses as such - more so than humans who had long since forgotten most of their natural abilities - but they were sentient. Most newly risen vampires would simply growl and attack and act like a pack of tossers, true. Any who made it past the first year, however, usually got their wits about them - else they didn't last much longer.

Every single child hiding in that chapel, praying to their God to show them just a smidgen of mercy, instilled with the faith that only children have - that because their parents said everything would turn out ok, then it _must_ be so - was bled dry that night. Not a single boy or girl would survive. He'd fed on only three himself, Dru perhaps a couple more. The rest they tore apart, separating head from neck, limb from limb. He only remembered the first - hauling her up through the trap door in the floorboards, out of the hidden room below, where she looked up at him with big blue doe eyes. Moonlight streaming through a plain window - there was no money in this town for any fancy stained glass number - gave her eyes a luminous glimmer. She hadn't made a sound, but she did wet herself when he lifted her up to see her face to face - his demon visage exposed.

In the end, the blood had pooled in the center of the room, and he and Dru had bathed in it. Frolicked amongst its warm, luscious flow. They flicked drops at one another, covered the alter in rivulets of it, and smeared it across the walls. They rolled in it. Smiled all the while, her in that fetching, ear-to-ear way that made her look ever more insane. The blood had soaked her silken dress through, forcing it to cling to her breasts, pert nipples standing at attention. It made her look ever so delectable. He then proceeded to rip the clothes off his dark princess and fuck her through the floorboards, the both of them snarling like wild animals the entire time. He lapped her neck as he came inside her; her nails dug trenches is his back as she was overpowered by her own orgasm. A short time later, they took care of the bodies - or what remained of them - propping some up here and there, placing a head at the feet of the crucified stone Christ (while positioning it, he'd burnt his hand on the holy symbol, but was in too good a mood to care), and a torso on the altar. The bits and pieces left over they piled high amongst the main aisle of the chapel, which separated the groupings of pews. Once finished, they danced their way out of town. If, waiting in ambush, the grownups of the town had heard the children's screams, they arrived too late. Far too late.

~~~

Decades later, on another trip below the equator, he found himself in a Chilean town just to the north of that which he and Dru had devastated so long before. Supposedly, some demon or other was recruiting there, amassing a small mercenary band for a one-off job with many riches involved - and with luck a lot of killing. All he'd found, however, was a Chaos demon - whom he killed on principle - and a musty old tavern. The tavern, at least, was more interesting than the Chaos demon, who had died begging for his life. In it, an old blind man lacking most of his hair told him the tale of the cursed town to the south, where, just after the dawn of the new century, an angry demon arose and murdered all of the town's children. The demon took their lives in the most horrid of ways, as punishment to the parents, who were an ignorant lot all around. Afterwards, the blind man - who was half drunk even before Spike had bought him a couple of rounds of whatever passed for ale in that particular shithole - said that it had rained for thirty days straight. The heavens weeping, washing away the blood of the children with its tears.

So far as Spike could remember, it had rained for three days, off and on. That's why they'd left - Dru hated the damp weather. But it was rather amusing to know that since then, the villagers to the south preformed a yearly bloodletting of their own children, in order to appease the fearsome beasts who had terrorized their home.

At the end of the night, he thanked the old blind bloke who was loosing his hair (that which remained was the white of pure snow), and said goodnight. Then he snapped the man's neck and left him where he sat, in the tavern, settling the hair loss problem once and for all. He was too old to eat.

~~~

Spike suspected, looking back on it, that the pile of body parts he and Drusilla had left in the church in the small Chilean town was at least twice the size of the one which now lay in front of him at the edge of the graveyard. He might have even wagered a guess at it being three times the size, only children's body parts were rather small, and these, from all appearances, were adult.

The similarity was rather striking though, despite the lack of artistry this particular bone heap (well, bone and flesh and blood and - hey was that an eye? - heap) seemed to convey. He and Dru had been artists, her especially, and while there had been a certain randomness - a sense of chaos - in their work, it was still art. What lay before him now was sterile. Sure, it likely had a purpose, though at the moment it was beyond him, but the heap was mechanical. He hated it. Worse, he hated what it would do to a certain petite blonde girl, hated the look of utter revulsion it would bring out of her, and he swore to himself that he would never, no matter how much she pried, recant some of the more... colorful anecdotes of his history to her. He couldn't bear to see her in pain - unless Spike himself was the cause of it. And even then, only a little. He didn't want to hurt her... much. Not in any permanent, emotional fashion.

The worst of it was yet to come, it would arrive in a moment, arrive when she did; after she saw what lay before them. She'd trailed behind as he strode firmly to the source of the quake. He'd felt in his bones that it had been within the yard. His yard, he liked to think of it as. It led him right to the spot, and she hung back, maybe pissed at him, maybe sensing that for him, this was trespass. Someone had pissed in _his_ yard.

The worst of it would arrive when he would display that insight which only he could have; when he would get his moment to shine. It was his damnable luck, not being one to disappoint. He wished he didn't have to tell her - but he had little choice. Only he would recognize it instinctively - there were, after all, numerous benefits to being a killer.

"There's pieces missing, luv."

~~~

The world in which Phereus now existed stank. It reeked; was so vile it made him want to spew out all his innards, and just keep going - to expel his very soul and allow himself to be free. In a purer, more powerful form. Only it couldn't be so - he was bound to the world, _this_ world, with no hope of reaching the next. A fact that had haunted him since before a simple carpenter had been nailed to a cross for the amusement of the masses.

Bile seeped up the back of his throat, the acrid taste a reminder of how much he hated this plane of existence. Its mortal populous disgusted him, adding to the stench of it all. They were weak of mind and body. Weak of soul. That he was forced to masquerade as one of them was infuriating, as much as living in the mortal coil itself. On Earth. The last place he ever wanted to be. Yet here he was, here he had remained, for over two thousand years. Watching human history unfold with great bemusement. Such a petty race. His greatest wish was that the lot of them choked. Let them murder each other off; he'd watch while one by they perished in a sea of arrogance, brother striking down brother like Cain and Abel. Yes, let them choke - but not before he found his way out of this hellhole.

Miles to go before that was achieved - curse the self-righteous but powerful fools of his homeland. When the Elders had forced him out of his own world, off the sublime astral plane in which his kind existed, they'd ensured that it would be a long time before he could ever return. How he wished that he could at least take on his true form, pure spirit, but no. He was trapped in mortal guise, a cripple compared to the being he once was. So he would remain until the time when he might at last return home. Whenever that might be. Return home, and ascend to spirit. As pure spirit, he could feel and experience reality on a level that no mere mortal creature could ever imagine - the philosophers of ancient Greece might bandy the notion about, but they would never be able to grasp the truth of it all. As a spirit, tactile sense was not lost - it was enhanced a thousand times over. The ability to feel an object, to take it in, from the _inside_ - there was little in the universe that compared to it. Sex on the mortal plain might bring brief moments of fleeting joy, wet and sensual and impassioned, but to be fully immersed inside one's lover... no. There was most definitely nothing in the physical world that compared to it.

That desire for home was all that drove Phereus. It consumed him in totality, a fact of which he was well aware. He didn't care. For there was a way to exit this horrid existence, a way to return home; this he pursued at all costs. When the Elders of his people had expelled him from his homeland, the portal they had opened was one through which his spirit form was... funneled. This was the push he had fallen victim to, a physic shove from behind. He had been funneled - straight into the womb of an unsuspecting young woman. One who, having achieved an immaculate conception, had been wise enough to keep her mouth shut about it (a few hundred years later, another girl would fail to be so cautious). The girl had been strong, in that, but far from strong enough. From within he'd fed on her, partially aware even then. She'd wasted away to a shadow, hiding alone in her hut - she was a widow, despite being little more than sixteen, her husband dead in a battle with a neighboring tribe (he had no idea who her people were, nor did he care). The girl had died birthing him, and for days afterward he'd fed from her body. Growing at an exceptional rate, his body - a vessel, simply - reached maturity before he'd lived a month as a mortal man. By then he'd managed to hunt, to feed off animals, and the other members of her tribe, who soon came to think of him as an angry spirit. They weren't far off.

The body was merely temporary. To survive, Phereus was trapped in a cycle of rebirth, able to retain memory but forced to find refuge in the womb of an unsuspecting mother with every generation. Such were the rules of this plane for his kind. He knew them just as all inhabitants of his plane had known, from those few who had made the journey to mortal worlds before. They could not survive in the mortal realm in their natural state. And if they - if he - died while in mortal form, he would simply... dissipate. Death with finality. Not something he intended to ever let happen. So for a few thousand years, he had, time after time in an endless cycle, taken a new mother and been reborn. He always knew when the time was right. His body never physically aged externally, but he was in tune with all the organs and veins of his shell and could tell when time was up. At that point, he would take a woman and bond with her - funneling his spirit into her just as he had been forcefully removed from his world and funneled into that first unsuspecting girl. Over the centuries, he'd been borne by and fed from a multitude of mothers.

And there was the way home, and the catch. He was not strong enough to open a gateway home by himself; it had taken twelve powerful magi Elders to send him here, combining their essence to remove their unwanted kinsman. Yet if he could combine his essence with that of his mortal progenitor, their fusion would generate the energy needed. Only none were strong enough to survive the birthing process, and thus none were available with which to link, afterwards, in an attempt to return home. It was the curse of this particular world, that its inhabitants were weak in so many facets. He'd sought out the daughters of seers and wise men, tried his hand with witches, but none could withstand the strain of birthing him. He had considered, once, taking a half-breed as a mother, a woman who was part demon, part human. Something, instinct mostly, told him it was a bad idea however. That it would kill him. He always listened to his instincts. So a human female it had to be.

Now the time had come again. And his hunt had let him to the odd little town known as Sunnydale. He'd learnt, in his travels, that Sunnydale rested at the base of a hellmouth. That didn't impress him - his astral home was far beyond anything the demon dimension had to offer - but when he had learnt that a Slayer called it home, that had intrigued him. He'd known of Slayers, but never thought to _take_ one as a mother. He knew the secret that even they did not - that the origin of the Slayer was a demon lineage. If a half-breed was out of the question, surely that excluded a Slayer. But now things were different; now he was desperate, having run through the most powerful human specimens he could find. Every other avenue had failed. It was time, as the mortal saying went, to roll the dice.

And this Slayer. This marvelous specimen. She seemed to advertise her presence to all the world, as if asking for something full of razor sharp teeth to come take a bite out of her. He hoped he wouldn't disappointed.

She was advertising it now, heading towards him, and not alone. He would have stayed to get a closer look - his dark clothes and black hair allowed him to blend in with the night - but he couldn't risk it. He'd confront her, but not yet. On his own terms. He quickly collected what he'd come for and took flight, away from the Slayer and her companion, before they reached his leavings.

~~~

"There's pieces missing, luv."

Spike let her take it all in. The bodies; the bits and pieces. To her credit, she didn't question him, didn't ask _how_ he knew. That was a good thing. Probably. Or did that just mean she still thought of him as a monster? Even if that **was** an adequate description of him, Spike didn't want her to think of him that way.

_You treat me like a man_

After a moment, she looked up at him. The hurt in her eyes shone even in the dark of night. 

"Who would do this?" was all she could say.

He didn't answer.

* * *


	2. Home Sweet Hellmouth

2. Home Sweet Hellmouth

_Take me down to the Paradise City  
Where the grass is green  
and the girls are pretty  
Oh won't you please take me home_- Paradise City/**Guns N' Roses**

  
The night had started out well enough. Another graveyard patrol, with her sometimes undead lover nowhere to be found, despite it being his cemetery. Always undead, sometimes lover. Shit, what a mess.

She'd roamed row upon row of freshly dug graves, and as she did it had occurred to Buffy Summers that Sunnydale bore a mortality rate beyond that of any rough frontier town in the old west, regardless of size or number of drunken scoundrels. Bodies stacked to the rafters, though the overall population was rarely in any great flux outside of Apocalypse season. The denizens of Dodge City would have been proud. If they'd still been alive, that was.

It had also occurred to her that she was in serious need of a life. She never should have watched that "Twenty-Four Hours of Eastwood" marathon on TBS. She blamed Xander - it had been his choice for movie night.

Unlike Dodge, however (and wouldn't a more fitting expression be '_lets get the hell outta Sunny_D'), freshly dug graves took on a new meaning in Sunnydale. Its overcast skies - a stark contrast to its southern California locale - made the town extremely attractive to the vampiric hordes of the world. Much more attractive than some desert outpost with scorching sun and smoldering heat. With the slight complication of a hellmouth - "Boca del Infierno", _the Mouth of Hell_, to the early Spanish explorers who had the misfortune of stumbling across it - adding to the mix, good ol' Sunnydale was a beacon for Vampires, who came to settle in and procreate - in their unique way. A big sucking thing, she'd once called it. Yes, Sunnydale could definitely suck.

Still, the night had started out with minimal suck factor. Then she found Spike. Then they found the bodies.

* * *

  


Spike's crypt - you could call it a Mausoleum, but really it was just a dingy, although nicely decorated, hole in the ground - was the crown jewel in the cemetery. The largest structure in the place, in the oldest portion of the yard. Much like its first living - well, not living, but _spry_- tenant, you always saw it coming a mile away. It was, for lack of a better word, _proud, _hole in the ground or not.

It stood out plain as day for all to see. If only she could see Spike's thoughts that well. To know what he was thinking, know what his intentions towards her were

Alright. So that was a bit too much Victorian Era. _Intentions? Get a grip, Buffy_. He's not courting you. Well, he is, but he already got... the prize, so to speak. Scratch that. He fucked you senseless. He just didn't get your love. Since he wanted the latter, she supposed sex was the consolation prize, but how bad could mind-numbingly good sex be?

Another part of her answered back, though. Are you sure about that? Oh how she wanted it to shut up. Shut up, shut the hell up, get away from me. _Evil brain_, she chastised. Only it wasn't all brain, and she knew it. It was heart as well. Her brain, for the most part, was well aware that she shouldn't love a killer. Her heart just wasn't willing to listen. She had hoped, that with time, if she broke off their little tryst, the feelings would go away. But every time she saw him, they was still there. Spike made her feel, when he fucked her up against a wall or bent her over a railing at the Bronze or took her in the middle of a cemetery - a location which hadn't worked out all that well considering she'd had to chase down and slay a newborn vamp buck naked. Worse, he also made her feel at other times, when he was fighting for her or watching over her sister or protecting her friends. Protecting even the ones he didn't like all that much, simply out of his love for her.

Love that he shouldn't be able to have.

And here she was, stuck, like some idiot schoolgirl in a nursery rhyme. I love him, I love him not. I love him, I love him not.

I love him, I love him not.  
I love him, I love him not.  
I love him, I love him not.  
I love - ARGH!

She'd never met a fence she couldn't straddle.

* * *

  


Buffy hadn't planned on bumping into him. Really. It was supposed to be a quick patrol, then exit stage left. He'd been nowhere in the yard; half the time she bumped into him out walking, but not tonight. Of course. He was probably out at some unworldly poker night.

Yet she went towards the crypt. Reaching it, she didn't want to enter. Everything still said no. He'd be in there, _poker night_was a delusion. He'd be there, and that was bad. Plus, she'd have to see the results of her redecorating-by-way-of-hand-grenade attempt. That was worse. True, it hadn't been her fault, but every time she saw the place now, it reminded her that she'd blown up the bed. She'd liked that bed, even if they didn't manage to make it there very often.

And once again, her thoughts were betraying her. Just great.

* * *

  


The earthquake saved her. More or less. He'd smelt her right away, and Buffy still couldn't reach a decision - was the whole smelling thing just really icky, or really erotic (_or was it a mixture of both, well maybe not icky but nasty, in a way she fucking loved_)?

Spike had been drawn out by her scent, and she felt like a canary fallen victim to the proverbial cat.

He saw the grass stains on her dress - and a leaf clinging to her blouse; _fuck, how had she missed that_? - and laughed. They were the remnants of the one fledgling vamp she'd encountered this night.

"Very funny" she spat at him. How dare he find this amusing. Ad if he's the gentleman caller, he should be offering to well, dust her off!

"Well, luv, last time we got grass stains on you-" he began.

"Do. Not. Finish. That. Thought." she fired back. But it was too late, her mind had already begun to wander. Sex on the lawn, in front of her house, behind the bushes but still _in front of her own house_. It was degrading, perverse, inappropriate, and a whole hell of a lot of fun. She had cum within spitting distance of her petunias.

She stalked off with a grunt, earning her another wry smile from the bleached blonde vampire who kept pace beside her. Trying to ignore him... his presence and his annoying habit of taking pleasure in her discomfort (_better than having him take pleasure in you_, her mind taunted, and oh why wouldn't it shut up), she walked in silence, back the way she had came. Towards home.

Of course, Spike was not one to respect a comfortable silence (_not that this was comfortable. Semi-comfortable at best, really. Fine. Downright awkward_). "So just where do you think you're going? Don't tell me you're done for the night and you're heading home with visions of pillows and comfy beds dancing in your mind. You came here for something, now out with it" he demanded.

Buffy sighed. Spike could be an annoying pest, but he had a nasty habit of seeing the truth and getting right to the point about it.

"I wanted you to come-" she glared at his raised eyebrow but continued, "to Dawn's birthday party. She'll be seventeen, it's a big deal, she loves you for some reason I can't fathom, and it would mean a lot to her". She paused. "_And-I-want-you-to-be-there_". Her cool was blown somewhere around the word "and".

"Riiiggttt". Spike drawled. "So is this for you, or for her?"

"It's for both of us" she replied. It was the truth after all. On rare occasions, it was a good thing. Very rare, with Spike.

"All well and good then. Cake, presents, and I promise not to eat any of the guests. Unless it's that _delightful_Richard." Frankly, Buffy considered this last jab a victory. He was coming, Dawn would be happy, and he didn't try to blackmail her. If he insulted Richard - whom she'd probably never see again, as he undoubtedly now thought her a freak - so be it.

"Great. I'll tell Dawn. It isn't for another week, so not to worry. But if you get her a gift, it had better be appropriate." Then, considering Spike's shopping tendencies, she added "and not stolen."

"Cross my heart and hope to spend a private evening with Peaches, luv" he retorted. Which, given how much he hated Angel, was probably a pretty solid oath.

Satisfied that her business with him was complete - and forcing herself to keep things strictly business - she turned from him with a meek "goodnight". Only to have him stop her, latching onto her arm.

"Going so soon? Come on, Slayer, the night's young, the stars are out, and there's a vampire about to raise to your left." This got her attention, and true enough, there was indeed a fledgling vamp clawing its way out of a fresh grave next to her. Barely thinking, she slid a stake out of the waistband of her pants - knowing that Spike would be admiring her hips as she did so - and rammed it into the vamps chest before he'd even made it all the way out of the ground. Proud of her efficiency, she let out a small shout of triumph, only to meet with Spike's frown when turning towards him.

"That was a tad sterile, Slayer... where's the sport in offin' the poor bastard before he has a fighting chance?" Would nothing ever satisfy him? Other than _that_, anyway?

"I'm not so sick as you as to draw things out. Vamps rise, I slay, it's not a game." She'd convinced herself of this. Almost.

"Of course it's a game," he retorted. "Deadly one, but fun. Now then... what else can we get up to on such a lovely evenin'?" He gave her a lecherous leer. "Some other fun games, perhaps?"

"I'm going home, Spike, I suggest you do the same." True to her word, she strode off once again, leaving him behind. But once again, he caught up, black duster billowing out behind him. He looked like... a killer. _And that's pretty much what he is_, Buffy's inner nag reminded her.

"Right, then. Home with you it is." Could nothing wipe the smile off his face?

"_Not_with me. Cut it out, Spike. Don't make things harder than they have to be." Damn. Way to go, Buffy, you've walked straight into another innuendo. Surprisingly, though, he let it slip. It was probably too easy even for him.

"Look, I know you" he began. "And before you go thinking that this is gonna be just another perverted compliment, it's not. You know I want you, I'm always thinking of you, and most of those thoughts involve you naked. But my point, and it's bloody well around here somewhere, is that I know what you're gonna do now. You'll trot off home, half pissed and full of energy, watch the telly a bit, crawl into bed, and toss and turn the whole damn night because you're not even close to spent."

Damn. Him. He was right. Buffy knew it, worse, she couldn't hide it.

"Nothing says we can't have a bit of fun, Buffy. I mean clean, honest - well unless we're gonna play cards or something - fun. Take a walk, slay some vamps. There's bound to be something to take up the time."

And again, he was right, and Buffy knew it. Maybe she could do it. Go with him, and not wind up on her back, panties around her ankles (when they weren't torn clean off), Spike driving into her, or maybe licking her, or maybe her licking him...

_Get a grip, Buffy_, she admonished. She really was becoming a split personality these days, and the cause of her problems rested before her, in the form of Spike. Still, it couldn't hurt. Much.

"Fine. So what do we do?" Buffy asked, then continued "and keep in mind, it will not involve stealing, drinking, or kitten poker. Clem's a great guy... thing... demon... but no kittens. If you want, we can call him up and play normal poker... or something else." Clem was a safety net. Clem was a third party, who could prevent the first two parties from doing any hardcore _partying_of a sweaty, naked nature. Plus, she really did like Clem.

  
  


* * *

  
Then the quake had struck, and at the center of it, there'd been pieces. Parts. _Leftovers_. There'd been plenty to do, no worries there.

Now, standing before that very heap of human remains, Buffy felt sick. Not physically; she'd seen pretty much everything as a Vampire Slayer (_well, a little physically - it was the smell; dank, **rotten**_), but mentally. Exhausted. Fell one demon, another rises. And this is what the left in their wake.

_Fell? Get a grip, Summers, you're sounding more and more like Giles by the day_.

She missed Giles. He'd have insight here, he'd support her. Of course, Spike had insight, but it wasn't the type she wanted. Maybe what she needed, but not what she wanted - it was just too disquieting. Someone had taken trophies? She asked Spike as much. Was that what they were? Was an arm or maybe a leg being stored in a freezer someplace by a Jeffrey Dahmer wannabe?

"Maybe" was his reply. Any other time, she couldn't shut him up, and all of a sudden he was Mr. Reserved. But after a few seconds he found the one silver lining in the hole ungodly mess:

"I'm pretty sure only two of these were fresh." And off her puzzled look, he added "fresh as in alive when they were dismembered. The rest - that odor that's turning your stomach right now, the swampy, musky smell - the rest were already in the ground. They hadn't been there long, but they were dead before all this."

To the hardened Buffy - the Slayer - within her, at least, _that_was the silver lining. The compassionate side - the one that was less Slayer, more Buffy - cried for those two souls.

Spike saw all this and more. He watched the girl within her weep, and the general within her take charge.

He needn't have asked "what now?"; he knew damn well what came next - but he did anyway.

"Assemble the troops."  


* * *

  



	3. Nightmares & Dreamscapes

3. Nightmares & Dreamscapes

_If your memories do stray  
Then they betray all that's past  
And all that's been between  
Is it gone tell me what went wrong_ - Walking Wounded/**The Tea Party**  
  
  
Anya hated being kept awake.

Of the two of them, it was usually Xander who was the heavy sleeper. Through rain, sleet, or snow, he could slumber - if it was _hitting_ him, never mind just rattling the windows. Thunder and lightning failed to phase him - nary a grunt or groan or snore was emitted in acknowledgement of that particular duo. If he rolled over even once during the course of a night, it was an ominous sign. The boy, quite frankly, slept like the dead. She would know, having had some experience in that department.

It was because of this that the mumbling, moaning, and groaning Xander was currently partaking in - not to mention the sheets soaked with sweat - had her extremely worried. Her, Anya, once wife to be of said Xander Harris, and former vengeance demon reinstated Anyanka. Living on a Hellmouth, surpassing a thousand years in age - you'd think she would be a little less of a worry wart. It didn't seem to make much difference though - the more time she spent as a human being, the more overwhelmed she became by the temporality of it all. Mortal beings were, well... mortal. They lived and died in the blink of an eye, cosmically speaking. Thus Anya wanted as much time with Xander as she could get, runaway Groom or not - though that did not include being kept awake in the middle of the night by him. Besides, the moans and groans weren't the good kind, the kind the two of them enjoyed on a near nightly basis, even years after their initial, frantic, and awkward (for him at least) coupling. These noises instead spoke of pain and loss. It sounded, in fact, as if he were whispering an apology, although for what she couldn't ascertain. She hoped, however, that it might be for leaving her at the altar on the most important day of her mortal life.

After what seemed like the twelfth (or was it thirteenth?) excruciatingly pain-filled gasp, she finally decided to wake him. She knew it was a bad idea to tear him out of such a fervent dream - or, more likely, nightmare - but there was only so much a girl could take. She shook him, gently at first, then a little harder, taking care to ensure that her smiling face was the first thing he would see upon waking.

"I'm sorry, Anya" he whispered, and she thought he'd awoken - but no, he was still half asleep. The nightmare appeared to have ceased at long last, however, and she decided to let him be. Morning's light would come soon enough, and both of them had to work - Xander at a new site, as assistant foreman on a rather large project constructing a shopping complex. If he impressed, it could mean a secure position with the firm in charge, rife with potential for raises and advancement. Which was, well, good. Plus, it seemed the dream _had_ been about her. And he should be sorry. Darned tootin'. Being left at the altar had been the most embarrassing experience of her mortal life - and of her immortal life. If he landed a job with the firm, he'd better lavish her with gifts. L-A-V-I-S-H!

It was with visions of new clothes and earrings dancing about in her mind that Anya finally slipped into slumber herself.

~~~

Maybe the strangest thing about the nightmare Xander had experienced the previous evening was that he remembered it at all.

He rarely dreamed, or at least very rarely remembered his dreams. He supposed he actually had to dream fairly frequently; he was pretty sure he'd read somewhere that a lack of dreams often lead to an unhealthy mental state - read: insanity. Still, since he usually didn't remember them, it didn't seem as if he dreamt very often at all. And he certainly didn't remember ever having had a nightmare quite like that one.

He must have kept Anya awake, although she hadn't mentioned it earlier in the morning when they'd shared a breakfast of bagels and cream cheese together (plain cheese for him, strawberry flavored for her, and well... he couldn't help thinking, Eww... Strawberry cheese just wasn't natural). And she hadn't tried to wake him, not that he recalled, during the night, as she sometimes would. Usually, when she couldn't sleep for whatever reason, she'd badger him, poking at him until he awoke, then draw him into some absurd guessing word game involving what she labeled "accurate but misleading clues". Mostly they were just misleading.

The intensity of the previous night's unrest brought him out of his lighter thoughts once more. He'd been in some sort of cave. The walls were brown, or perhaps a dark red (and hey, how come he could remember the color anyway, weren't dreams in black and white?), and had jagged, protruding edges jutting out at all angles. The floor was dirt and gravel of the same color, and in the center of the cave - which was about half the size of a basketball court - was a shimmering pool of blue liquid. Perfectly circular, the edges of it raised up from the ground just slightly. The liquid - what might have been water, only it was too bright, too blue - reflected back perfectly, only in blacks and grays. He knew, because he was staring into it, and what was staring back and him was his reflection - entirely in black and gray, like something out of an old movie on the Late Night Revue. Only, there wasn't even any white. Just jet black and smoke gray. 

More troublesome than this, however - and it was troublesome, despite his mind telling him that his own reflection couldn't possibly hurt him - were the shadows. Not shadows he or anything solid was casting, but shadows floating around him in the cave, as if they were alive, creatures of free reign who could take on any shape. He couldn't tell how many there were, for at times they seemed to meld into one another, but they encircled him, and here and there he could see what seemed like eyes - only they were in the form of tears, holes which you could see straight through, and thus whatever was in the background - usually the brown (or was it dark red) walls of the cave - provided their coloring.

The circle drew closer and closer around him, and he was forced towards the pool in the center. And it was then that he thought of Anya, and knew for some reason he was failing her, although he didn't for the life of him know how. He could feel her, as if she was near, but he couldn't see her. Swirling, the mass of shadows advanced closer, forcing him to the very edge of the pool, but before he took the plunge - which he knew would be his final act on this plane of reality - he called out to her. 

"I'm sorry, Anya." The words came out as a whisper. 

Then the dream faded. It seemed as if it should have gone on - he never reached the point of falling in, the point in most dreams where you're, say, falling from the sky and about to hit the ground only you wake up just in time. In his dream, his nightmare, he knew he was about the fall, only he never even got started. Everything just... faded, and he assumed that's when he finally reached a peaceful state of sleep.

~~~

By midday, the nightmare was all but forgotten. Tito the Amazing, plumber extraordinaire, had been somewhat less than amazing on this day. He had, in fact, blown a valve while testing out the new piping in the subbasement of the new shopping complex's main building. The resulting flood hadn't done much permanent damage - nothing a quick mop job and some "decorative" plaster couldn't take care of - but it had left a couple longtime employees of the construction company slightly soggy. Soggy in this case being completely soaked. As it was Xander who had recommended Tito for the job - his sometimes drinking buddy was looking to move out of the realm of full copper re-pipes for residential homes and into something bigger - he was more than a tad worried that he'd be the scapegoat or sacrificial lamb. However, the Head Foreman didn't seem interested in such an animal. The Foreman, whose name was Joe Something or Other, had taken it all in stride, and noted that he'd yet to be on a job site where everything went perfect. Xander breathed a small sigh of relief upon hearing this comment, and vowed to say a brief prayer to whatever deity looked over the apparently godforsaken burg known as Sunnydale - just as soon as he figured out who such deity was. And gave him or her a piece of his mortal mind for allowing such a hellhole to exist in the first place.

Well, maybe he wouldn't go to that extreme. The last person he knew who had insulted a God and lived had been Spike, and he'd come out of the experience looking very much worse for the wear. Well, technically he hadn't lived, being a vampire and thus already dead, but he had walked... stumbled... away. And looked as if he'd been hit by a train. Still, living in Sunnydale was a love and hate relationship, emphasis on the hate. Still more emphasis on the hate of Spike.

With thoughts of Godly vampiric torture on his mind, the remainder of the day seemed to fly by. When he wasn't forced to actually mull over some blue prints or sign off on a fresh order of cement for building three (otherwise known as the hole in the ground where building three would be erected), he passed the time with fun-filled games of Remember When. Remember when Spike tried to kill us all? Remember when Angelus tortured Giles? Remember Ms. French, the insect lady? Not a happy round of reminiscence, but oddly comforting in its own way. He'd overcome a hell of a lot, given that, starting out in Sunnydale High, he'd lacked even the most basic of survival skills. Then, in the course of a few weeks, he'd learnt that his new best friend was a Vampire Slayer, the school librarian was her Watcher, his hometown rested on the mouth of hell (with Sunnydale High conveniently located directly above it), and that a centuries old vampire was trying to bring about an apocalypse. And not only had he managed to accept it, he'd survived, and helped prevent one hell of a lot of badness.

Sometimes, a bit of pride was a good thing. When he left the site that evening, the aforementioned pride had managed to bring his mood a complete one-eighty from where it had been that morning. He was working things out with Anya, had some pretty damn cool friends, and had saved the world at least six times, not that he counted. Life was looking pretty up.

~~~

Dawn was pretty sure that she remembered having other dreams, once. Of boys and puppies and being a movie star and a lot of other cool stuff. Dreams that were different than the one she now had night after night, for so long that she couldn't seem to remember ever having dreamt anything else. Ones not laced with strange innuendo. She was pretty sure, but not completely sure. After all, she'd only existed for a little over two years. And, who was to say she'd ever experienced a dream before then? Having been created and just given memories of a past that never happened... it was hard. Not knowing where the humbug ended and the reality began, that was even worse. Too much for a girl who was sixteen going on eternal. It made you question reality and your own existence. If you can't tell where the fake memories end and the real ones begin, then do you even exist in the present? Did you ever exist? Are you simply a reflection of others? I think, therefore I am. I think, therefore I am not. She'd picked up some of the ideas surrounding Cartesian Theory between her English and Philosophy classes, where she was, if not excelling, getting passably by. I think, therefore I am not. I am not Buffy, I am not Willow. I think, therefore I'm not them. I'm not a reflection of them. I'm me. 

She could grasp that, but not math. Go figure. Probably because she was, well, a key. The Key. One mystical blob of energy, whose purpose was to open the portals between dimensions - break down the walls between realities - spirited off by some monks sworn to keep it from the hands of evil, bundled up and molded into the form of a girl. A teenage girl. Dawn Summers. Name and identity so chosen because Buffy Summers, an only child for her entire life until reality went for a little side trip, was the Slayer - a powerful warrior, who could protect such a precious yet dangerous item. Who could be expected to love and protect her sister, even if the sister in question wasn't really her sister.

She - Buffy that was - could also be a Grade A Bitch at times. Dawn loved her anyway, and knew Buffy felt the same. The monks had chosen well. Still, she felt ignored and isolated, especially in recent months. Everyone around her was grown, they were so far away. Even when in the same room. The only ones she could even get semi-close with were Spike and Xander. Xander, because, well, he still liked a lot of "kid-stuff". Not that she was a kid - she might still feel like one at times but would never admit to it - but... cartoons. Sugary cereal. Video games. Laughing at immature noises and fart jokes. Those were things you shouldn't have to give up just because you hit a certain age. Xander got that, and still liked such absurdities, so they could relate. And Spike - he was the only one who didn't treat her like a total kid. He didn't speak down to her - he spoke to her.

Then there was Tara. They had something different... maybe an older sister thing, but of course Dawn already had an older sister, and wouldn't having another one who wasn't a blood sister be like cheating on her or something? Maybe it was a mother/daughter thing... only a really young mother who could still relate to and have fun with her daughter. Whatever, it was cool. Only Tara was out of the picture for now, stolen from her.

Because of that, she had no one to talk to about the dreams. Buffy was busy with Slayer stuff, and they'd never had the gossip-about-sex type of close relationship some sisters did. And she certainly couldn't talk to Spike or Xander about these dreams. Not yet. It was just too uncomfortable. She'd rather have a blatant sex talk with either of them than go over the dreams with that pair. Actually, a sex talk with Xander and Spike... alright, don't go there. Point being, these dreams were strange _and_ embarrassing and the only candidate she would have felt comfortable talking to about them was the one who wasn't an option - Tara. So she'd have to settle with figuring them out for herself. Struggle with the meaning of it all... but hopefully learn something.

~~~

In her dream she's naked. That isn't the problem. She's pretty comfortable with her body. Sure, she's a bit tall for her age, but long legs - so not a curse. The problem is the setting. Broad daylight. Her own living room. Filled with her friends. Not friends from school, or Janice - if that were the case, the dream could probably be summed up as the usual teenage anxiety. No, not school friends. The Scoobies. Willow, Xander, Anya, Buffy. Spike. She stands naked before them, unable to move, despite the intense desire to run. Flee. Get the hell outta Dodge, or at least get your naked ass out of the living room! After a moment, though, the reason why she's unable to flee - can't move much at all, actually - becomes clear. Her hands are bound with leather restraints, raised above her head. Feet bound together with a cord, just barely touching the floor. Funny how she never noticed that at first. It's like a cheap porno movie (at sixteen, she's well versed in those, unbeknownst to Buffy), only there's nothing sexual about it - other than the whole nakedness bit. It's sterile, and she feels like she's at a doctor's office. The Scoobies play the role of the doctor, or well, doctors. They're examining her. Buffy acts more like an overseer, and Spike simply watches, perhaps a little... chagrinned? The others look her up and down, nodding at some things, frowning at others, but she has no idea what is bringing out these reactions.

Suddenly she's out of the room, clothed now in blue silk - pretty sweet, actually, except she's never worn anything like it in her life. It's nearly transparent, and it clings to her as she walks. Oh yeah, she's free now, walking. To where, she doesn't know, but at least she's free of the meat market. There's mist swirling around her legs, and it dawns on her that she's outside - and barefoot. Moist blades of grass press up between her toes. She must be in a park. Wait, no - tombstone. Cemetery. Figures. Welcome to Sunnydale. 

In front of her, standing in the darkness, arms outstretched in a welcoming gesture - as if to say, _come to me_ - is an unmistakably male figure. Great. Dawn suddenly wishes she had more clothes on, something other than this translucent garb. She considers running, only to find that she's drawn to the figure. To his outstretched arms. She can't turn away, what's more, she doesn't _want_ to. This despite the fact that his face is hidden by shadow.

As she heads into his arms, the dream ends - with her never having seen his face.

~~~

With telling the Scoobies far from being a viable option at this point, the best thing to do was the traditional Scooby fallback plan for when all things unexplained arose - research. For Dawn, there was one place and one place only in which research took place. Having missed the high school years where Scooby Central was the Sunnydale High Library, under the reign of Giles - she was too young, and hadn't actually existed - this place was the Magic Box. And that was where she headed directly after school on what was to be another typical day in Sunnydale - typically strange.

~~~

It was half-past three when Anya herded what had to be the most stubborn customer in the history of retail sales out the door of the Magic Box. At the very least, the most annoying customer in the history of sales of magical paraphernalia. The Magic Box was Sunnydale's lone magic shop, though surprisingly profitable - a benefit of the town having been built upon a Hellmouth. As its proprietress, and half owner - the other half being Rupert Giles, of course, who would hopefully remain overseas for some time with her in total control - Anya was used to dealing with some colorful and often times downright strange characters. Strange even by her thousand-year-old ex-demon standards. But this one... she'd been unable to sell him on the Essence of Slug candles, which were now marked down to seventy-five percent off. He'd spilt the entire bowl of Chicken's Feet which lay next to the counter. Then he spent a good five minutes ogling the statue of Raush, the Fertility God of an ancient sect of witches - a statue that resembled, of course, a phallus, as nearly all fertility statues did. Except _this_ customer... seemed to want to make a little comparison. Approaching her at the counter with the statue and nothing else in his hands, it took her a full minute for the implication of his question to sink in.

"Do you have any fitting rooms available", he inquired, and most of her puzzlement came from the fact that they didn't sell any form of clothing. 

"Fitting rooms?" came her puzzled reply. Looking from the statue to the slightly rose colored cheeks of the customer, however, it hit her. Ick. The thought of someone doing that... in her store... well maybe, but no. He simply wasn't her type. There was something very not Xander about him. 

After taking the statue from him, he went from the slightly sheepish nature he'd had about him while asking for the fitting room to an irritated, irate customer, droning on about an order of Newt's Eyes he claimed to have picked up the previous week. He'd asked for organic Eye of Newt and had received synthetic ones, which had buggered up his spell rather badly. Without of a receipt, however, Anya was unwilling to deal with him. No receipt, no return or exchange. It was the Capitalist way. And she was proud to be a hard-working member of the capitalist system. After a few more minutes of bickering, however, she caved. Anything to get him out of the store.

~~~

Dawn took no notice of the irate brown-haired man as she passed on her way into the Magic Box. She certainly didn't notice that his fly was down. Not that it mattered, if she had, she was slightly too shy to have said anything anyway.

She did, however, notice Anya, who had a strange expression of relief on her face. Which frightened Dawn in an "Oh, Yuck" sort of way. What if Xander had got off work early and had stopped in and they'd used the training room to...

The teenager soon realized that this wasn't the case however. There'd been no afternoon quickie. For one thing, Anya was impeccably dressed, in a light blouse that really accented her golden locks, and a dark skirt that hung to the floor. There were none of the tell-tale signs of having hastily dressed that usually signified an afternoon tryst for the ex-demon and her former fiancée. Dawn was able to pick up on those easily, because she had caught the pair of them post-passion at the shop on at least three occasions in the past month. They didn't know - probably thought they were doing a great job of covering up the evidence - but she could tell. Whose sexual radar was more attuned than a teenaged girl's? 

Plus there was the fact that on this afternoon, Xander was nowhere to be found.

That was a bonus, actually, because it would be easier to get what she wanted if she dealt with Anya alone. Anya was, well, Anya... still working at being a human. She was straightforward to the point of being inappropriately blunt, and had an unhealthy fascination with commerce and all things involving money. She always seemed to be in a bit of a rush, with no time for small talk - likely due to her newfound mortality - and it was this last trait that Dawn hoped would make things easy for her this afternoon. Besides, it wasn't as if she was doing anything wrong.

"Anya, Hi!" she called out, all smiles and cheerfulness. Only to be shot down by the former vengeance demons gruff reply. "Dawn. Punitive Damages. Ring a bell? When are you going to work off your debt to me?"

Oh. Right. There had been that little incident... well string of incidents if she was going to be honest about it. It, or they, had involved her stealing this and that from the Magic Box. At the time, it had felt cool - dangerous, something she shouldn't be doing, _oh what if I got caught_. Then she _had_ been caught, and it hadn't been very cool at all. Anya was her friend. Well Buffy's friend, or Buffy's friend's ex-fiancée now back to girlfriend, but whatever the relation, she was nice to her_ most_ of the time. In the end, Dawn had felt pretty shitty about the whole thing, and even she had recognized it as a cry for attention. Not that she didn't deserve a little attention - months later and she still couldn't help feeling ignored by the older Scoobies - but it was a rotten thing to do.

"When school's out for the Christmas season, remember? Then I'm counter girl." Working in the magic shop was not something she was exactly looking forward to, but it was something she had to do. She was well aware of that, even without the endless parade of lectures from Buffy, and Anya, and even Spike, of all people. Spike, who stole essentially everything he owned! Still, she understood, and did plan to pitch in. But right now, she needed a favor from Anya, and obtaining it wasn't going as easy as she had hoped.

"But in the meantime, you know, I'm still in School and stuff... and I sorta needed some help, with that" she continued, struggling to come up with a good excuse as to why she needed... what she needed.

"You mean with Math? Because if it's math, you really should ask Willow. She's the math brain. Unless it's Economics. I can help you with that. Or Business. Is it Business? I know all about business. I'm very business savvy." Conversations with Anya were often like conversations with a hypertension sufferer - or someone with hypertension who also happened to be on a great dosage of Speed. 

"No, it's umm... Dream Interpretation. It's for an English class. We're doing some book where... the protagonist dreams and stuff. And I don't need help so much as I need books. Plus, Willow's in England still. Detox."

Anya looked unimpressed. "So you don't want my help, just more of my things? I'm not a library. Why can't you use a library?"

"There wasn't anything good there... the selection is a little slim" she explained. "They inherited most of the books that survived the fire at Sunnydale High... but that wasn't much. Giles was a lot more into demonology than the interpretation of dreams... or any other books for that matter." Despite a solid personal collection of classical English fiction and poetry, the Watcher had allowed the catalog of the school library to slip some. "And since he rescued all the demon books that were left over for his own collection, we have next to nothing other than some old English texts from the 70s, a couple Time-Life series, and a bunch of copies of Emily Dickinson - she must have been way popular at the old high school."

"Shouldn't the new librarian have ordered new books for the umm... new library?" Anya asked, possibly setting a land-speed record of repetitiveness.

"That's mostly Harry Potter books and after school special material" Dawn replied. It was the truth - her school library was a dumping zone for whatever other schools cast off, with a few trendy best sellers tossed into the mix to hide how dilapidated the collection really was.

"Well, I don't see why you'd expect to find anything useful here" said Anya. 

Dawn seized the opportunity this response opened, trying to keep the story short and simple.

"Remember when we were cataloging the rare books? There was one about dreams, and when I was researching sources on the net, I recognized the title. It might be helpful, and I promise to keep it in good shape. Won't put a mark on it. Please? Buffy'll kill me if I don't pull my grades up."

Anya caved. "Fine - but you have to promise me you won't try any spells with it or anything. It's not a spell book, is it?" she asked.

"I think it's just writings on the dream world and stuff. Nothing scary. And I so promise to be careful." Which, again, was true. She'd be very careful when she went about preparing the spell that would - if it worked right - reveal the messages and hidden truths behind the dreams to her.

This seemed to be enough for Anya, who motioned for the younger girl to follow her over to the rare book stacks. These were located on the upper level of the store, where potentially dangerous texts were also stored. The shelves were low but wide, and each was covered in a thin film of dust. Apparently Anya was more concerned about making sales than keeping tidy. Although, Dawn surmised, a layer of dust might be some sort of prerequisite for old books. Just like yellow, crumbling pages and that musty smell only books written at the turn of the century or earlier possessed.

As Anya looked on, she pulled out the text she wanted. **Dreams & The Shadow World**. Presenting it to the shopkeeper, she mentally crossed her fingers, hoping that the woman who had lived a millennia would be unfamiliar with it. That seemed to be the case.

"Never heard of it. Just don't try and read any lines in Latin out loud - you should never speak Latin in front of magical texts" was Anya's lone warning.

"I'm pretty sure there's nothing magical in it. But I'll be careful" she assured. Conquest had, she made her exit, promising once more before she left to be careful and to return the text in immaculate condition - or at least as well as she had found it.


	4. Thinking Inside the Box

4. Thinking Inside the Box

_Romeo and Juliet   
Are together in eternity (we can be like they are)  
Come on Baby, don't fear the Reaper_ - (Don't Fear) The Reaper/**Blue Oyster Cult**

Xander arrived first, technically, since Anya ran the store and was already there when the meeting was called. Thus she really couldn't _arrive_. Point being, her man was on the scene first, even before Buffy, who'd called the meeting. That gave her some small sense of pride, although whether he was really _her man_ anymore was up for debate. She gave Xander a smile, but continued to work, organizing merchandise on the shelves behind the cash. There was, after all, money to be made. First there was the shelves. Then there was the worry. Then he'd say it, or say _something_, and As for the shelves: Newt Eye before Frog Tongue. Eye in the forefront, it was a classic, and sold well. Synthetic Newt Eye under the counter - it tended to cheapen up the place. Chicken's feet next to the cash - would she ever be rid of those?

She noticed Xander staring at her, somewhat impatient, and with an audible sigh turned from her duties to her lover. "It's a lot of work, being an entrepreneur you know" she admonished.

"I know, An. I get it, I run a crew... I just, you know, want to see you before everyone else gets here". He smiled.

"You want sex? We could go in the back" she replied, growing wet. She loved this aspect of humanity - she could get herself worked up at the drop of the hat. But she was shattered by his reply.

"I don't think that's a good idea... uhh... with the others coming... I meant just some quality time together. Talking and stuff".

"You want to talk?" Anya asked, somewhat confused. Xander was a man, after all, of that she had ample evidence.

"Yeah. Talk. And keep in mind, this may be a first for the male species". Great. _Xander chooses to embark on a first for his gender at the exact time I'm not ready_. And she wasn't, really. Not at that moment, at least. She did not want to hear what he was going to say. She wasn't prepared for it. Of course, how can you prepare for something like that? For the "where do we go from here" speech after a failed wedding and the embarrassment of being left at the alter?

Much to Anya's relief, however, any hope of actual conversation between the pair was dashed, upon the arrival of Dawn, followed by Buffy, followed in turn by a blanket-covered Spike.

~~~

The meeting went as well as could be expected, if not better. The gang, minus Willow, who was still out of commission (being tended to by a distinctly motherly Giles back in England), listened. Xander actually managed to sit still, aside from the occasional nodding of his head, for a full ten minutes. Buffy was fairly certain this was a record. Spike injected details when he saw fit, but for the most part he remained uncharacteristically stoic as well. Anya served up a few helpful hints about demons who tended to dismember their victims, Dawn suggested the missing bits might be trophies of some sort, and Xander and Spike, sitting at opposite ends of the table, managed not to kill one another. All in all a success, and a significant improvement over the initial days after Spike's return to Sunnydale. Not that Xander lacked a valid reason. Buffy was far from forgiving Spike herself, and Xander had been hurt doubly so, after the wedding had imploded. Still a wise woman had once told her that Spike had done a lot of good. Tara had been right about that. There were still issues between them, _major_ issues, but she had to accept a simple fact: the gang needed him. Needed his strength and his cunning. And in another way, one completely beyond anything she could put into words, she needed him as well. Needed him in her life as well as her work. Could things be any more frustrating?

Well, yes. Not having enough info to go on in the case of the mutilated corpses. For all the Scooby suggestions, the number of potential suspects they'd identified clocked in at a colossal zero. Big Fat Nothing. For the one million and eleventh time, she wished for Giles. For him to be with her, with the gang, in Sunnydale, instead of back in England mothering Willow and trying to draw out the poison. Not that curing Willow wasn't important, but he was her

_Father_

Watcher. And she wanted him there, to help. To lend reassurance that she was doing things right. To wipe his glasses, flip through his books, mumble about this or that demon, and then have the inevitable "Ah-Ha!" moment that he always did.

In essence, she wanted her daddy. That's what Giles really was to her, although Buffy herself was still too torn to admit it. But for all her spunk and rebellion, Buffy Summers was very much a daddy's girl at heart.

It then occurred to her that someone was speaking to her. She'd zoned out. Then the speaking stopped, and she suspected that the person might want an answer - although there was no way in hell she could provide one, taking into consideration her not having caught a word of what had been said. Based upon the expectant look on his face, however, she fingered Xander as the one who'd been doing the talking.

"Huh?"

_Oh my, how witty, Buffy. Way to cover for your complete lack of attention_ she admonished herself.

Xander didn't seem to notice. Some days it was good to be blonde.

"What next? Where do we go from here? And while we're at it, where's here? We really don't have much to go on" he said. It was a good question, and a fair statement. They had ever so little.

"We don't know the who, the why, or the how" Buffy replied, "but we know the what. Lets hit the books, look for mass dismemberments. Maybe Dawn can Google for it." 

Not that they were likely to find much outside of Giles' texts. Thankfully, he'd left all but his most prized volumes with them when he returned to England. So much of what was found within them was lost to the outside world.

Spike, having been silent for most of the meeting aside from Buffy's initial telling of what they'd discovered, decided it was time at last to speak up. The boy wouldn't like him chiming in, not that he cared, but he wasn't entirely happy about once again unveiling the darker side of his history in front of Buffy. Unfortunately, he had no choice. None of the others, not even Anya, who'd cast her spells at a distance, would see things the way he did.

"We know the How, luv" he began. "They were pulled apart. Bugger that did this was strong."

Buffy shot an annoyed glance in Spike's direction. Why hadn't he brought this up earlier? At the scene, for one thing. Did he think her that weak and dainty? 

"How can you be so sure?" Dawn inquired. 

"No cut or slash marks. No bite marks. We'd know if it'd been knives, swords, teeth - that vein leaves marks. Everything in the pile we saw was ragged. Twisted. Bones were wrenched out of sockets, but many were intact those that weren't were obviously broken by hand."

To Buffy, the answer made sense. It probably made sense to all of them. Maybe that's why Xander chose to attack. He'd never get past what Spike was.

"And just how do you happen to know this?" Xander questioned the vampire, his voice swimming with accusation.

"I'm a vampire, boy. I see what you don't, smell what you don't, and I've done things you would never even think of." Damn bricklayer was always getting on his nerves.

Buffy, meanwhile, couldn't be bothered separating the latest schoolyard tussle between the two. The news Spike had given was great. Just bloody great.

_You're sounding like him again, Buffy._

Willing her brain to shut the hell up, she reevaluated the situation at hand. Add freakishly strong on top of criminally inane, with a side order of serial killer trophy taking to boot. Though what kind of trophies human body parts made was something Buffy could do without knowing. She'd missed Vietnam.

Anya spoke up next.

"All those parts, all those bits and pieces.. why? What for?"

As usual, Anya spoke with a calm detachment from the horrors of their current "case". Buffy, earlier on in their friendship, had believed that would never change. She'd only worry about herself, or Xander. The ex-demon had progressed, though. At least to showing concern about her immediate circle of friends. Still, total strangers, even slaughtered ones, were not about to bring about sympathy from Anya.

"That would be the "why" we don't know" Buffy reminded her.

"Well, you said they were already dead, right? Most of them?"

Receiving the affirmative nods she'd fully expected, Anya continued. 

"Well then, I can tell you what they're not for: eating" she said matter-of-factly, to the blank stares of the rest of the group. Buffy could see it in them - _there she goes again, our Anya, always stating the obvious in that awkward way only a former demon can_. Only, Buffy had a hunch that Anya was about to have one of her breakthrough moments. It was something in her eyes, maybe.

"I've known a lot of demons in my time. Made a few of them. _Dated_ a few of them."

Xander couldn't hide the hurt look, but he managed to avoid attempting to stake Spike, so Buffy took it as a positive. That she managed to restrain herself from tackling him and pounding him senseless was also a bonus. There were still open wounds where the four of them were concerned.

"The ones that feast on human flesh" she went on, "are surprisingly picky eaters. No way do they mix live flesh with dead meat. It's one or the other. And they don't normally take leftovers with them, unless they prefer fresh food and the leftovers are still breathing. Like, this one Togram demon I dated, he had this thing for virgins - not having sex with them, don't get me wrong, just eating them - anyway, he tore this one girl's arm off, but when he was done munching on that, she still hadn't croaked, so he-."

She stopped then, taking note of the identical looks of revulsion on the faces of the assembled Scoobies. Dawn looked like she might actually retch at any moment. Cutting her story short, she concluded by saying "Point is, whoever snatched the part has a reason. Trophies, maybe, but it seems rather pointless to take trophies from pre-killed victims. Just two live ones puts a damper on that theory. Plus, food is out. So it, whatever it is, it has a reason. And that signifies something at least bordering on intelligence - not your run of the mill, "Grr, Argh" sort of demon." 

Buffy had to give it to her. When Anya was right, she was **right**. And dramatic. How much it really helped was yet to be seen, but it at least gave them more of a place to start - although thanks to the ex-demon's story, Dawn probably wouldn't get much sleep that night.

"Right. So nothing low level" Buffy told the group. "Probably not a vampire, either - not too many would be strong enough, and when they take trophies, they're usually of the shiny, might-be-worth-money kind. Lets get to the research, but eliminate the candidates that clearly don't qualify - eaters of the dead, trophy takers, you get the idea. Whatever else is left we work from there."

"What if nothing's left?" Dawn asked.

"Then we wait to see what else turns up" Buffy replied. And shot Spike another angry glance when he spoke up again.

"Probably more bodies" he offered. _Real helpful, Spike_ she admonished him. In thought, anyways. She chose to keep quiet, fearing that, in the end, he'd be right.


	5. Sleepless

5. Sleepless

_I'd sell my soul, my self-esteem  
A dollar at a time  
For one chance, one kiss  
One taste of you_ - Magdalena/**A Perfect Circle**

Second time around, the dream didn't fade quite as quickly. Third time (which was anything **but **a charm, that was for certain), it lingered. It was still haunting Xander when he punched out at the end of his shift. Technically, since he was in charge, he could have flown the coop a little early, but that wasn't his style. He had to be responsible, he had to set the example for his crew.

Just when the hell had he become the responsible one?

But the dream… the third time, that had been Thursday. Days after the meeting, no new clues. He was beginning to feel that Spike had been right, and if anything grated his cheese more than siding with Spike, he hadn't experienced it yet. But the dream had him forgetting all that mighty quick. His head had throbbed from the intensity of it by early afternoon, and by the time he arrived home he was waiting for his forehead to split open - it would surely happen if the headache got any worse.

The dream made just being near Anya difficult. He couldn't escape the feeling that he was failing her somehow. As an expert in that department - _left the pretty bride at the alter, didn't ya, slipped out into the night and slunk back into town like the coward you are_ - he knew the feeling well. Only Xander had no idea what the dream was about. It was recurring, and he remembered more and more of it with each "showing", but he knew next to nothing about dreams. He'd picked up a bit of the usual babble from Giles over the years, but he'd tuned most of it out. And Sunnydale High? Psychobabble long since forgotten.

The end of it terrified him the most. The pool… he was sure it was called a Well, though it wasn't, exactly, a well like anything in his own world. Going there meant his end. Going there meant he would fail the girl he loved. Going there meant oblivion.

So why did he find himself there every time?

---

A wise-ass once said only two things in life were certain: death and taxes.

Anya knew she would die. There was no doubt in her mind. Her death was imminent; fire and brimstone would play a key roll in her future. The powers were not at all forgiving of demons. They were even less forgiving of demons who'd forsaken their calling to become human. At any level of heaven or hell, Anyanka would be distinctly unwelcome, an embarrassment to some, a disease to others, hated by all and destined to suffer.

Death was imminent, and it would be a bloody, violent end for her. Struck down by the blade. She was sure of it. Death was part of being human, violence was part of loving Xander and hanging around Buffy and the others. Slaying plus humanity equals death. A simple equation.

Yet, if Xander, mortal through and through, failed to accept these odds with nary a second thought, would she still love him?

To that, Anya had no answer. But she was proud of her man, no matter how he had wronged her, and that amazed her. As a vengeance demon, she had cursed many grooms who had found themselves with cold feet and fled, leaving confused, teary-eyed would-be brides in their wake. Boils, warts, oozing sores - all on the genitals, leaving a scarred, broken, limp dick in their wretched hands - that was her style. And that was just for starters.

With Xander, she had done the unthinkable. She had _forgiven_ him.

Now her man was having dreams. Nightmares. She knew, though he never spoke of them, that they were extremely painful. He muttered apologies to her nearly every night, never consciously, always cried out from his restless slumber. It worried her. At first, she'd been tempted to pass them off as belated after-effects of the wedding incident - _this debacle, the worst day of your mortal life, shall forever be known in your mind as the "Wedding Incident"_, her brain taunted her - but Anya had come to dismiss this idea. While they still had things to work out, still had that dreaded **talk** to take care of, the trashing and moaning Xander exhibited each night indicated something much more sinister. She was going to have to consult some of the books at the Magic Box. The store had a decent selection of texts on dreams and the subconscious. Plus, she'd have to pry the subject of the nightmares out of Xander eventually in order to interpret them. That she was not looking forward to.

Worrying over the figure dozing next to her - thus far it seemed Xander would be dream free for the night - it never occurred to Anya to question the timing of Dawn's request for a book about dreams.

---

Green and glistening with Midnight dew, thick blades of grass poke up between the toes of her bare feet as she walks. They tickle her soles, but Dawn takes no notice, focused as she is entirely on the figure ahead of her. Here she is in the cemetery again. Here we are, now entertain us. She knows it isn't real, that she's dreaming, and knows equally well - from what she'd learnt via the volume Anya had leant her - that it is extremely rare for someone to know they're dreaming and yet continue to do so.

There's no dress of blue silk clinging to her this time around. Instead, she wears only a silk thong, which hangs so lightly that it feels as if she's wearing nothing at all. It makes the faintest caress of the cheeks of her ass as she saunters to the man in black. Maybe, she thinks distantly, the particulars of a dream change with each viewing, or the mood of the dreamer, while it's the overall experience, and atmosphere, that is important. That remain unchanged. Either way, at least the color is consistent. Blue dress, blue thong. If only she had a matching top. Here she is, out in the open, graves left and right, and her breasts hang free, bouncing lightly as she walks. She feels… exposed. And hot. Her nipples stand erect. Dawn is embarrassed to discover that she is turned on,

_Dream, just a dream, I don't really feel this way, nipples don't really throb_

and more than just a little concerned that she keeps walking to the distinctly male figure in the distance unabashedly.

_I'm not really wet_

She finds herself unable to stop. She finds that she doesn't want to stop.

---

Just like the others, it ends with her walking into the arms of some unseen figure, never seeing his face (and it is a He, of that Dawn is very sure; this dark man of her future is distinctly male).

Three times she's had the dream now. And still she was yet to find the courage to try out the spell from Dreams & the Shadow World - a spell she'd originally found while helping Giles catalogue the Magic Box's collection. But it would be soon. Very soon. Dawn was determined to figure out who was haunting her dreams. And while the timid schoolgirl side of her mind warned her about meddling with dark forces - _look at what happened to Willow, remember Mom?, do you really think you can handle a tenth of what Tara could_? - Dawn was also the sister of a Slayer, raised on a Hellmouth. Raised, for so long as she had actually existed.

Maybe, thought Dawn, the dreams had something to do with that. Maybe the figure in them was her destiny. Maybe he could help her find herself.

---

_The fruits of my frustration litter the wastelands. The souls claimed skitter two and fro, yet always return to the sound of my call. They always returned to their master, no matter how they hated him._

These thoughts amused Phereus. Scyomancy was his craft - at least that was what they called it here - but so many failures, so many aborted births… the Well had become crowded. Yet soon it would grow again, its tormented populous would be forced to accept newcomers, and the wastelands on the other side would know new wailings. Between his callings, it was all they could do. Wander the vast expanses of nothingness beyond the Well, and cry out. For mercy or for oblivion; they were really one and the same.

Soon. Soon the number would grow. He needed their power.

His vessel was leaking. They always did, in time. It always had the same side effect. Like with a leaking gas pipe, those who got close for too long would begin to see things. And too long wasn't long at all. Phereus couldn't help it. He just hoped they didn't see too much. What they saw while bits of his aura, to use the rather poor human word, escaped his mortal body was beyond his control. Usually, he caused nightmares, which amused him to no end, but once, someone had seen too much. He did not wish to have it happen again.

Roanoke. He had been drawn to the determination of that colony. Maybe they would have amongst them a woman capable of receiving him, of birthing him. In the end it hadn't mattered. In the end it had gone badly. The Croatoan wise man had, between his puny mortal magicks and the dreams escaping from Phereus's mortal form, discovered him. He'd warned the settlers. They had reacted rather unexpectedly.

They killed all of their own women. Right down to the youngest child. The girls had all stood in line in the town square, waiting for their throats to be slit. Blood turned the pressed dirt courtyard to mud where it pooled at its thickest. They went willingly, one by one, undeterred by the thrashings of those falling before them. Phereus had arrived too late to stop it, and in a rage had wiped out the rest of the colony, slaughtering them all, taking what he needed, and casting their remains into the ocean.

Someone had, of course, managed to leave a clue behind. He's discovered this years later. The word, Croatoan, carved into a tree. It was a message. Talk to them. They know. But he's killed their wise man, and the other members of the tribe refused to talk of the spirit they'd angered, nor the fate of the settlers.

Many of those settlers still served him. They wandered the wastelands beyond the Well, waiting for his summons.

---

Blood of the many, flowing before her. Blood of the innocent, the young, the lost, the helpless. Blood of those she had failed.

Buffy watched it flow through her mind, a river of toxin threatening to drag her down in its undertow. Soon enough the unseen dam burst, and she ran from the outpouring in full-fledged panic, wave upon wave crashing down around her heels.

The blood of those she could not save haunted her dreams.

This was not a new dream by any stretch of the imagination. From nearly the time her gifts as a Slayer had revealed themselves - from the very beginning - it had stalked her. Buffy was quite sure failures of past Slayers were mixed up with her own; surely she could not have so much blood on her hands in just a few short years. And there were faces. Some she recognized: Jessie, who might have been a friend save for an early death she could not prevent. Jonathan, who never really fit in. Jenny. Maggie Walsh, felled by her own hideous creation, a being Dr. Frankenstein himself would surely have marveled at. Tara. Tara hurt the most. She had been a real friend, had stood by Buffy when the Slayer was at her worst, had come back from a righteous mindfuck administered by a half-crazed Hell God and never once thought of giving up the fight. Other faces she had either forgotten or had never known. Three sisters roughly her age in Victorian garb. An old black man, maybe the oldest person she had ever seen. A blind man who might have been from somewhere in South America. A British man she was sure was a Watcher.

Lately, it seemed the dream... dream, or dreams maybe, for it was never exactly the same… was more intense. More vivid.

Now there was a new twist. Now there was a man dressed in black, face hidden, arms outstretched, as if ready for a welcoming embrace. Buffy was powerless but to walk towards him. To her left, from the corner of her eye, she saw Dawn. Dawn was walking in time with her towards the darkened figure awaiting them. Dawn was naked. Looking down at herself, Buffy was somewhat less than surprised to find that she was also naked.

Tears streamed down the cheeks of both sisters, but neither were aware of them in the least.

Each time she awoke, Buffy was sure of only one thing - she wanted to go to that man (it was a man, she was sure). She wanted to do whatever he asked of her, whatever it might entail.


End file.
